Rain hammered against the crumbling rooftops of the city as Rosalie tightened her grip on Aurore's small hand. The night was thick, almost suffocating, each shadow seeming to stretch farther than it should, as if conspiring with the storm to conceal their escape—or to reveal them. Aurore, trembling beneath the oversized cloak Rosalie had wrapped around her, clutched a small bundle of belongings: a few worn books, some scraps of clothing, and the fragile remnants of a childhood she barely had time to understand.
Rosalie moved swiftly, every step calculated, silent, yet charged with a tense urgency that made the young girl stumble once or twice. "Keep close," Rosalie whispered, her voice hoarse but steady, the edge of command unmistakable. Aurore nodded, eyes wide and dark with fear, yet filled with a strange determination she did not understand. She trusted her mother with a depth that terrified and comforted her all at once.
Behind them, the city's night seemed alive, murmuring secrets to anyone who would listen. Cobblestones slick with rain reflected the flickering lamps, creating illusions of movement, of figures that might not exist—or might be waiting. Rosalie could feel it in her bones: the pursuers were close. Richard's reach was long, his vengeance cold and unyielding. Every decision she had made in the past year had led to this moment, and every choice now could be the last.
Aurore stumbled again. "Mom… I'm scared," she whispered, voice barely audible over the downpour.
Rosalie slowed, bending down to meet her daughter's gaze. "I know, Aurore. I know. But you have to trust me. You have to believe that we can survive this night. No matter what happens, we keep moving." She placed a trembling hand on the girl's cheek, and for a brief second, they were just mother and daughter, not fugitive and hunted. But the moment shattered as a distant shout echoed through the alleyways—a sharp, commanding sound that made Rosalie's blood run cold. Someone had spotted them.
They turned sharply down a narrow side street, hidden from the main road, the walls pressing close on either side. Rosalie had memorized every back alley, every forgotten passage in the city, from months of careful planning and desperate scouting. She led Aurore with certainty, though inside, her mind raced: where could they go that Richard's eyes could not reach? Every option seemed dangerous. Every risk, potentially fatal.
Aurore's small hand was clammy in hers, and Rosalie felt a pang of guilt. She had promised this child safety, yet here they were, running through rain-soaked streets as if fate itself had chosen them for torment. "Almost there," she murmured, though she knew the words were more for herself than for Aurore.
The sound of splashing footsteps approached behind them. Rosalie's chest tightened. Simon. Or one of Richard's hunters. She could not be certain. He was methodical, relentless, and unknown—but she felt his presence like a shadow pressing on her heels. She quickened her pace, pulling Aurore with her, as the rain soaked through their clothes, chilling them to the bone.
Finally, they reached the abandoned warehouse Rosalie had chosen as their temporary refuge. Its doors were heavy, rusted, and groaned when she pushed them open, but it was better than the streets. Inside, the smell of damp wood and dust filled their nostrils, and shadows stretched across the floor in strange, disjointed patterns. Rosalie ushered Aurore to a corner, huddled together, listening. The storm outside raged on, masking the faint noises of pursuit—if anyone was even close.
Aurore pressed her face into Rosalie's shoulder. "Will they find us?"
Rosalie swallowed hard, forcing herself to remain calm. "I don't know," she admitted softly. "But we will do everything we can. And we will survive. That… I promise you." Her voice was firm, yet underneath it, a tremor betrayed the fear she could not let Aurore see. Because if the child lost hope, if she faltered, then everything was lost.
Hours passed in tense silence. The rain's rhythm against the roof became a strange comfort, a reminder that the world was still moving outside, indifferent to the danger that pressed upon them. Rosalie tried to catch her breath, to plan their next move. She needed supplies, information, a place to hide until the sun rose. Every step, every decision, could be watched. Richard's hatred was like a living thing, patient, intelligent, and infinitely cruel.
She looked down at Aurore. The girl's eyes were heavy with exhaustion, but she was still breathing, still holding on. A small, fragile smile curved her lips. "Mom… I want to go to school," she whispered, voice hoarse from fear and the cold.
Rosalie's heart clenched. "One day, you will, Aurore. But not yet. Not until it is safe." The words felt hollow even as she spoke them. Safe was a concept long erased from their lives. Safe had no place here, in a world where a king's wrath could reach into the night, where loyalty and love could be twisted into instruments of death.
Suddenly, the door creaked. Rosalie froze. Aurore stiffened, her small body rigid. For a moment, time itself seemed to pause, the storm's fury outside replaced by the dread of what might have crossed the threshold. But it was only the wind. Relief flooded Rosalie, though it did little to settle the tension that clawed at her chest.
She gathered Aurore close and whispered, "We need to rest for a moment. Just a little. Then we move again. We cannot stop. Not for long."
As Aurore drifted into uneasy sleep against her mother, Rosalie allowed herself a moment to breathe, to think, to remember. She thought of Richard—the cold, calculated fury in his eyes, the humiliation he had suffered when she escaped. She thought of the life she had tried to carve out for herself and Aurore, a life that was always slipping through her fingers, threatened by a past that refused to let go. And she thought of the future—fragile, uncertain, and terrifying.
Because they were not just running from a king. They were running from the consequences of choices made before Aurore had even taken her first breath. Choices that had been etched into their blood, inherited like a curse. Rosalie's hands trembled as she stroked her daughter's hair. She had done everything to protect her, yet she knew instinctively that the worst was yet to come.
Hours merged into an indistinct haze. Rain fell, thunder rolled, and the warehouse became a sanctuary and a prison at once. The night stretched endlessly, testing their endurance, their courage, and their will to survive.
When dawn began to hint at the edges of the sky, Rosalie roused Aurore gently. "We have to keep moving," she said. The girl nodded, fatigue shadowing her expression, but determination burning quietly behind her fear. They stepped out into the early morning light, wet, tired, and uncertain—but alive.
As they disappeared into the waking city, Rosalie glanced back, one last look at the place that had sheltered them for a night. Somewhere in the shadows, a presence lingered, watching, waiting. Richard's wrath was patient. Simon's mission was underway. And the fragile illusion of safety that Rosalie clung to was already slipping through her fingers.
Aurore did not understand yet the weight of her heritage, the danger she carried in her blood, or the role she would play in the kingdom's unfolding nightmare. She only knew that her mother was there, that they were moving, and that somehow, they had survived the night.
But survival, Rosalie knew, was only the beginning.
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End of Chapter Question psychological :
"Can a child truly be safe when her past is a weapon, and her blood a target?"